disorder
by blossom in ribcage
Summary: Claudia Winston tries to navigate growing up— sometimes, she even succeeds.
1. eleven

So, I've always wanted to write a sisterfic— hopefully a realistic sisterfic. This is more a collection of oneshots than anything with a coherent plot, and I'll probably jump around a bit chronologically.

* * *

 _December 2nd, 1961_

 _Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, New York City_

Her brother barrels through the door while she's dozing in the broken armchair, her bare feet dangling over the edge, but Claudia jolts upright the second she notices him. "You were supposed to be back by eleven."

He shoots a glance at the clock on the wall (obscured by a thin layer of grime, like everything else in their apartment.) "It's not even ten yet, genius."

"Eleven on _Friday_. It's _Saturday_."

"Congratulations, you've learned your days of the week." Dallas throws his jacket onto the floor; it's a nice jacket, nicer than any of them should be able to afford. "Where's Norm? He even here?"

"Asleep." She's lying, wants to say _drunk_ , but he doesn't call her out on it. This isn't the kind of question he needs an answer to.

"Good. Last thing I need is him on my ass right now." Crusted blood surrounds his nose, and he has dark circles around his eyes, the same blue as hers. He looks exhausted, despite all his swaggering. "I brought you back some fence," he says with a sly smirk, dropping a bracelet into her lap; it's probably not real silver, but it's the most expensive item she's ever held in her hands. "You like it?"

"I'm still mad at you," she huffs, throwing it aside.

"Quit bein' such a kid." He flicks her hard on the ear, and when she yelps, flicks her again. "I almost got arrested for your birthday present. Wouldn't mind a thank you."

"Would've been a nicer present if you'd been home," she mutters, but not too quietly for him to hear.

"And what'd Norm get you, huh?"

Nothing, which is what their father gets her every year, unless she counts the beer he let her have— she'd taken one sip and promptly retched, her throat burning with acid, while he laughed and said she should've known booze wasn't for nice girls. "Shit, I'm sorry," he says when he sees her face, a phrase that almost never exits his mouth. "Hey, _I_ remembered." He scratches the back of his head. "Eleven's a neat birthday. That was when I first went to the slammer— nah, ten. Same difference."

"Not helping." She squishes herself further into the armchair.

"At least try it on. Jesus Christ, I had to pull a fire alarm in the store to get it out."

Reluctantly, she slips the bracelet onto her wrist, admiring the way it gleams in the dim light. "Dad prob'ly won't let me keep it." Not after what he did with the jewelry their mother brought from Tulsa, anyway.

"So shove it under your mattress or something," he says, pulling a carton of milk out of the fridge and drinking straight from it— she wrinkles her nose. "Problem solved. If he tries to sell it, I'll beat his head in."

"If you really wanna give me a good present," she says before she can help herself, staring at his swollen face, "stop beating people's heads in."

"But then how would we have more in the fridge than this _lovely_ clotted milk? Or this... fuck, what even was... okay, this ain't food, don't touch this." He shuts the door with a disgusted shudder. "Quit saying stupid shit. You wanna be out on the street? 'Cause that's what'd happen, and you know it."

She does know it. She's known it since the first time Norm left them alone to score a hit, as long as she can remember. "No," she says quietly, taking a piece of loose skin on her lip between her teeth. "But I can't sleep when you're gone."

"You're just a kid," he says, his tone softening a fraction; he walks back over to where she's slumped and slings an arm around her shoulders. "'Course you're stupid. That's why I gotta look after you. Nothing hurts me, so don't worry."

"... Well, you're just a teenager," she pouts. "Who's gonna look after _you_?"

He only rolls his eyes in response, then pulls her up. "Go to bed already, now that I'm here. You want me to read you a story, too?"

She sticks out her tongue and starts heading towards her room. "Thanks," she says quietly from the hallway, holding up her wrist. "Even if you almost got arrested. Thanks."

"Better late than never," is all he says, but he's trying not to smile.


	2. division

Thanks for all the encouragement, guys! I'm back with another unexpected arrival, but this time, a far less pleasant one.

* * *

She's supposed to be doing homework, but she can't concentrate; maybe it's the neighbors throwing plates again, or the filthy shouts on the street, or even the leaky faucet in the kitchen. Staring at the crumpled paper, she bites down on her pencil eraser; she understands how to solve precisely nothing, as usual, the numbers swimming in her field of vision. She's careening straight towards another zero, another scolding at the front of the class, another reminder that she'll never amount to much, anyway, so why try?

(Sometimes she wonders why she still goes at all. Dallas hasn't been to school in weeks, according to the increasingly angry truant officer, and she doubts he's ever done a worksheet in his life. It's just that, unlike him, she doesn't have anywhere _else_ to go.)

"Baby girl."

Shit. She didn't even notice him come in, unshaven, the front of his shirt stained with old vomit. Dallas said the night before that if he didn't show soon, he'd start hitting up the neighborhood dives and haul him out by the armpits, because the rent was already two days late. "Baby girl," Norm echoes; he stumbles forward, then takes hold of the couch and steadies himself. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Dad," she says, her mouth bone-dry.

"Where's your— your _brother_." He triumphantly slaps a wad of bills onto the table, like a returning hunter with his prey. "Where the hell is he?"

"I don't know," she lies, playing with a loose thread on the bottom of her skirt. It's too short; she's outgrowing all her clothes, but there's never any money for new ones. "He didn't tell me."

"Well, _you_ tell _him_ that if he's been hauled in again, I'm done. I ain't paying another dime of bail. He thinks he's grown, his buddies can clean up the fucking mess he keeps making for me." Norm pounds the table once, twice, three times with scraped knuckles– she forces herself not to jump. "I've had it up to here. He just left you all by yourself? Didn't say a word? Bullshit."

When she doesn't respond quickly enough, he grabs a handful of her long hair and tugs— not hard enough to hurt much, but it could, if he wanted. If he wanted, he could yank it straight out of her scalp. "He didn't tell me!" she insists again, her eyes prickling with tears. "Really!"

His temper fizzling out like a wet firework, he lets go and crashes down on the chair next to her, sighing. "You doin'... 'rithmetic?" She gives a hesitant nod. "Your grades any good?"

She shakes her head now. There won't be any consequences for this truth.

"Maybe if your mama's grades were good, she wouldn't've turned out such a slut— but I guess preachers' daughters always go wild. Goddamn. Pretty, but so fuckin' stupid. Reminded me of a deer caught in the headlights."

He takes another look at her homework, hastily scribbled all over, and rips it in half. "Like this shit matters for a girl, anyway. You're cute. That's what's important."

"Cute like Mom?" she dares to ask, every nerve on high alert. She's playing Russian roulette pressing this topic, but she can read him well, by now. When he's drunk, his mouth runs.

He gives her a cool, appraising glance, as though he's seeing her for the first time. "You don't look like her," he slurs, then runs his thumb down her jaw— it knocks the breath out of her, though his touch is for once gentle. "You look just like me. We got the same hair an' the same nose an' the same— you look like _me_ , baby."

"What about Dally?"

"Well, he's got her whole fucking face." He spits on the already-dirty floor. "Wish he'd died instead. At least you can keep your mouth shut, but all my own damn son does is give me lip and bring the fuzz knocking. If he even _is_ my son."

She should say something. Anything. Sit up straight, talk back, grow a spine— she owes Dallas that much. But she's little and skinny and eleven, and her scalp aches.

"You know you need to be quiet, don't you? Cop shows up at the door asking what's what, where we are, you don't talk. Ever." He grasps her by the shoulders. "I'm in some bad shit, and your brother's in some bad shit, too— and your mama, she was real stupid. She got involved in things that were none of her business. But you're _my_ daughter. You're smarter than that."

"Yes, sir," she says, because that's the fastest way to make him let go.

He knocks the chair over when he gets up and stalks off to his bedroom. She doesn't bother trying to collect the shreds of paper on the ground. They have two stolen TV's and a stereo, but no tape.


	3. potential

"I hate being at school with a bunch of babies," Sarah declares, rolling her eyes— the mascara clinging to her lashes would earn her a detention, if the teacher noticed. The pack of cigarettes in her hand would earn her something a fair bit worse. "Ain't you sick of it, Claud?"

"Definitely," Claudia says with a matching eyeroll, leaning against the chainlink fence; the frigid wind keeps blowing her hair into her face and seeping through her thin jacket. They're not allowed to be on the roof, but she's also not allowed to come to class without her arithmetic homework, so that's that— and Sarah never needs an excuse to skip. "Give me a light."

Sarah does, and Claudia shoves the cigarette between her lips, trying to inhale and not cough. She succeeds at the inhaling part, but bends over hacking a second later, her throat on fire. "You gotta get more practice," Sarah teases, blowing smoke off over the skyline. "Come on. That was pathetic."

"Well, sorry _my_ brother watches his weeds like a hawk." She takes another indignant huff; he'd threatened to skin her alive the last time he caught her digging around in his pockets. "Guess I'm a baby, too."

"Nah, you're all right," Sarah magnanimously says. "Not like _some_ people I can name."

"Still mad at that new girl?"

"'Miss, I saw Sarah and Tom kissing behind the trashcans! Isn't that against the _rules_?'" She scowls and stubs out the cigarette on the rail, sending sparks flying in every direction. "Who gives a damn about the rules? We should get her back. Pin her down and cut off all her hair or something."

"Maybe you just shouldn't invite her to your birthday party," Claudia suggests with a grimace. "That's pretty harsh. And won't get us expelled."

"Please. Birthday parties are for kids." She leans in to whisper in Claudia's ear, even though there's no one else to hear them. "My sister Diane says she'll get Mom out of the house if I wanna have a sleepover, and she'll slip us some beer, and she'll invite boys so we can play spin the bottle. That's what they do in junior high."

Claudia suppresses a shudder at the thought of the booze. "Sounds neat," she says out loud.

"You think your dad'll let you go?"

"Not like he's ever home," Claudia says. She shrugs as nonchalantly as possible, then shrugs again for good measure. "So I'll just go out, I guess. Dally does it all the time."

"Speaking of brothers..." Sarah starts, just as nonchalantly. "You'll get to talk to Jack again, won't you?" She scuffs the toe of her boot against the concrete roof and smirks. "That's probably why you wanna come?"

Claudia flushes bright red. "No," she says too quickly to be believed, her eyes fixed to the ground.

"He thinks you're cute," Sarah presses without mercy. " _Real_ cute. He asked me yesterday when you'd be over again."

"Liar." She's never so much as exchanged a single word with Jack— never managed to screw up the courage. She doubts he remembers what she looks like at all.

"Call me whatever you want, but—"

"Just what do you two think you're doing?" their arithmetic teacher demands as she thunders up the stairs to the roof, her throat bulging like a bullfrog's in her anger. Dammit. Busted. "Are those cigarettes?"

"Why, do you want one?" Sarah asks innocently, hiding a snicker behind her hand and betraying no fear.

"Skipping class to smoke— there are young, impressionable children at this school." She grabs the pack from Sarah, throws it over the fence, and begins marching them down the damp, dimly-lit staircase by the elbows. "Imagine if a kindergartener had found you?"

"I would've offered them a weed, obviously," Claudia says, before her brain can catch up with her mouth, and their teacher's grip grows tight enough to bruise. She still doesn't regret it, especially when Sarah winks at her.

"You just wait until the principal gets a hold of you, young lady," she says through gritted teeth, leading them past a hallway of gawking grade-schoolers and inside the front office— she stops long enough to deposit Sarah into a chair, before shoving the door open. "Mrs. Andrews, I'm afraid we've got another Winston on our hands. I caught her and her friend smoking— on the _roof_. While they should have been in class, may I add."

Claudia's jaw tightens, but she doesn't bother to speak up in her own defense. What is she supposed to say? _I didn't have my homework because I reminded my drunk daddy too much of my dead mama?_ "I see," the principal says, her eyes narrowed, and pulls out the paddle from her desk drawer. "I'll deal with this, Miss Finley. You can return to your pupils now."

She leans forward, once the door slams shut again. "Claudia," she starts, "I remember your brother quite well. He was the first ten-year-old I've ever seen leave this school in handcuffs."

"I'm not my brother. Ma'am," she adds bitingly after a moment's careful pause, shifting in the seat.

"I certainly hope not," the principal says. "He was— is, I should say— very bright. Very bright indeed, to be fencing stolen goods before he even went to junior high— there wasn't a lock here he couldn't pick. If only he'd applied an ounce of those brains to his studies."

Claudia opens her mouth, but the principal holds up a hand. "I haven't had you in my office before. I don't know if that's because you're better behaved than Dallas, or just better at not getting caught. For your sake, I'd really prefer it be the first one." She gestures for Claudia to stand up and bend over the desk— a rapid blow cracks across the seat of her skirt once she does, raising a sharp sting, but it's not followed by another.

The principal pulls her up, probably expecting tears; Claudia stares ahead impassively. Even Norm can't always make her cry, much less some do-gooder stranger. "If you're sent here again, don't expect me to be so lenient," she warns, giving Claudia a brief pat on the shoulder. "Go back to class now."

"Yes, _ma'am_." Claudia makes a sympathetic face when she passes Sarah on her way out, then allows herself to scowl. God, how embarrassing, and then having to listen to that mess about Dallas's brains. Like this woman knows anything, perched up here in her office, going back to Park Slope every evening. Like he ever would've chosen schoolbooks over food on the table.

Well, the principal was right about one thing. She _is_ better at not getting caught than her brother.


	4. ignition

She's sprawled across her bed, a tattered paperback in her hands, when she hears glass break. At first, she doesn't so much as look up— only rereads the same lines over and over, because maybe she can pretend this is just another night, another pissing match between her drunk brother and even more drunk father that'll quickly fizzle out. Then comes a second round of shattering glass, and something that shocks her out of low-level discomfort— a female shriek. Carefully, she puts Where the Red Fern Grows down on its spine, making sure none of the pages crease, and approaches the living room.

(Knowledge is power. She's so sick of never knowing a damn thing, getting information in drips and drabs that nobody meant to reveal. Never knowing when she'll have to dodge a blow.)

Turns out she wasn't wrong diagnosing that shriek as female, because there _is_ a woman hanging in the doorway— stringy brown hair, short dress, makeup coating her drawn face like a shield. She looks simultaneously too young for her father and too old for—

"Cass, God, just get the hell out of this shithole," Dallas tells her with blood dripping down his cheekbone, shards of a beer bottle surrounding his feet. "I'll be back at your place in a few."

"Your ass is stayin' right here until you give me some answers," Norm says after she's turned tail and run, without looking back. "I don't give a fuck about _who_ you wanna fuck, but you think this place is your own personal whorehouse now?" He slams his fist into the wall for dramatic effect. "You knocked her up, that's your problem, but I'm not raisin' no grandkids. Should've worn a rubber."

"Guess I'm just following your example, _Dad_ ," Dallas says, the blood standing out obscenely against his pale skin. "Remember Betty? Or Sandy? Or Janice— oops, I forgot she was supposed to be our new stepmomma. Still jealous she crawled into my bed? I'm not sure if she ran off with your baby or mine."

(Claudia quite liked Janice, before the whole hitting-on-Dallas thing. She was the only person around who could braid hair.)

"Stop it," she says in barely above a whisper, as Dallas gives him a hard shove, but it sounds like a shout to her ears. "Can't you stop it?" There's a horrible tingling throughout her body, starting in the hollow of her chest and emanating to the tips of her fingers; she's at once too afraid to stay and too afraid to leave, and too angry to think above all. Can't they ever stop it?

"Go back to your fucking room," Dallas hisses out the corner of his mouth, spinning around to face her. "This ain't your business."

"Who put you in charge, huh?" Norm tilts his head in her direction. "Claud, you want him bringin' his whore home and takin' food straight from your mouth? Go on, honey, tell him you don't."

"Food?" Dallas cackles without any mirth. "I'm the only reason there's ever food around, you son of a—"

"You're _fourteen;_ you don't get to talk to me like that. You ain't shit." Norm finally shoves him back, hard enough for him to stumble into a broken chair, and Claudia suddenly realizes that Dallas isn't half as big as he talks. At least not compared to their father, who fills all the space in a room without trying. "Claud, tell him you don't want that slut suckin' off guys for twenty cents a pop in here."

"Leave him alone," she says, her voice thin and reedy, then hates herself for adding, "please."

"You little bitch." For a blurry second, she thinks he's going to hurl a bottle at her too, and the world moves in slow motion as he mimes the toss, but instead he drops his arm and storms straight out. Not that he'd been back for very long. "I ain't gonna listen to this. You two do whatever you feel like an' choke on it."

"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out," Dallas shouts right before it slams, then starts dragging her down the hall and back into her room. "Did I look like I needed your help? _Leave him alone!_ That'll sure show him."

"You're welcome."

"Are you retarded or something?" Dallas deposits her onto her bed, his mouth narrowed in an angry slash. "You think I talk just 'cause I like hearing myself yap?"

"Yeah, maybe." She sneers, refusing to be intimidated yet again. "If you're so smart, why'd you bring that woman back here? You knew he'd flip shit."

"Shut up or I'll hit you. I'm fucking serious."

"Do it."

He slaps her upside the head— not that hard, but _still_. "Screw you," she says, rubbing the sore spot. She feels dizzy, stars all over her field of vision, but it's not from the slap.

"You got an awful big mouth for a little girl," he says, sitting down next to her. "'Least that's what the principal called to tell Norm. Don't suppose I'm gonna get a thank you for intercepting that one."

"What'd she say?" she reluctantly asks.

"That you got smart with your teacher when she caught you smoking on the roof," he says. "Emphasis on the smoking part. Now, if you was my kid brother, I guess I'd congratulate you. But you're my kid sister, so you'd better straighten up. I mean it."

"What does being your _sister_ have to do with anything?" she demands. "Dammit, you're so unfair— you'd probably give me a pack an' tell me to blow the smoke in the principal's face, if I was a boy." She slams her face into the pillow, fighting the urge to scream, or cry, but she's a Winston. She's supposed to be tougher than that.

"Watch your fucking language. You're eleven and you got a mouth worse 'n mine." He awkwardly pats her on the shoulder. "Look, it ain't cute when a girl does this kind of stuff. You're gonna end up like the broads at my school who get knocked up at thirteen, if you don't cut it out."

"It'll be all your fault, then, 'cause I can't even sneeze without being called 'another Winston'." She sits up to shoot an accusing glare in his direction, as much fire and brimstone as she can muster, though it's a lost cause. "Did the principal mention _that_?"

"Really now." He affects nonchalance, but beneath it, he's terribly impressed with himself. He likes being infamous, even at an elementary school with paper snowflakes on the walls. "Bitch still remembers me? I mean, she'd better. I'm pretty sure I was the only snot-nosed kid there to get dragged outta fifth grade by a police escort."

"She told me." Claudia thinks, before she speaks again. "She called you brilliant, too."

"Yeah, goddamn right I'm brilliant," he says smugly. "Brilliant 'nuff to figure out book-learning's a waste of time when you got fence to sell." Then he wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer to him; he smells like old liquor and something sharper, metallic. "Quit shaking. I shouldn't've smacked you, okay? You just scare the shit outta me when you don't use your head. Stay the hell away from Norm when he's soused."

It's the closest she'll ever get to an apology from him, and she doesn't have the energy to squeeze out more. Instead, she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. "Is Cass your girlfriend?"

He probably grimaces, but she can't see his face with hers buried in his shirt. "Nah. Girlfriends are too much dinero. She's just got nice tits. Yeah, I know, I shouldn't say that," he adds after her sharp intake of breath. "Don't start acting like her, or I'll beat your ass good. I gotta help her out some. She's in a real mess— no, not pregnant with my goddamn baby, before you ask."

She doesn't like the way Dallas talks— too bright, too sharp, too jagged. His world all edges. "Yes, _sir_ ," she says anyway, drawing it out as long as possible. She can sense the worry he hides under the harshness.

"Well, Norm's gone," he says, disentangling himself from her. "You wanna throw eggs at the neighbors' porch?"

"Sure," she says with a shrug.


	5. heat

Five A.M., and Claudia's throwing pebbles at Sarah's bedroom window— not hard enough to break it, but enough to draw her attention, maybe. She shifts from foot to foot, trying to stave off the cold; the sky looms big and dark behind her, pollution making it glow orange and bathe the buildings in sickly light. The streets are eerily quiet except for a few pushers, the falling snow just adding to her sense of unease. She'd be afraid of what might happen to her if her brain wasn't frozen solid.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to walk around alone at night?"

She leaps up, the pebble clattering to the ground; she hadn't even noticed the door swing open. "What the hell are you tryna break the window for?" Jack continues, scratching the thatch of dark hair on his chest. He looks both amused and contemptuous, a difficult way to look wearing only pajama bottoms. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"The heat went out at my place," she says lamely, rubbing her ungloved hands together, "and there's no one else at home, and I didn't have nowhere to go, really—"

"I just asked why you were here, not your whole life story." He lets out a dramatic yawn. "Ain't you cold?"

"Yeah," she admits, her face as red as a stop sign, but not entirely from the wind. "Can I come in?"

"If you want." He steps aside to allow her into the foyer, where she stops for a second, absorbing the heat. "Bill didn't get paid?"

"Something like that," she says with a snort, kicking off her slushy boots. Their house isn't much nicer than her own— broken, mismatched furniture, cobwebs dangling in the corners, linoleum floors in need of a good scrubbing or twenty. A roach scuttles across the kitchen table when Jack flicks on the light; he kills it flat with his bare hand.

"Sally's asleep," he says; Claudia wrinkles her nose, knowing that Sarah abandoned her 'childish' nickname in the fifth grade, but she doesn't bother to correct him. Her own brother's called her worse. "And she sleeps like the dead, just so you know. You could've thrown a grenade and it wouldn't have woken her up."

"Sorry if I woke _you_ up." She awkwardly perches herself on one of their kitchen chairs, sagging in the middle, and brushes the last few snowflakes off of her skirt and jacket; she still can't bring herself to make eye contact again. They're nice eyes, though. Greenish-gray.

"Nah, don't worry about it," he says as he rifles through the fridge and pulls out a carton of orange juice, along with a couple of chipped plastic cups. "I'd just got in myself. Out on a job all night."

"What kind of job?" she asks, then wants to clap a hand over her big mouth. Great. She usually can't string a sentence together around him, and now she's nosing into men's business.

"Had a dope deal go ass-up," he says, like he's discussing the weather report. "I got a bunch of dumb motherfuckers in my outfit lately, lemme tell you, and guess who had to clean their mess after they pissed away fifty bucks? Me." He shoves a cup in her direction, and without blinking, pours vodka into his. "You want some?" he asks, gesturing towards the bottle. "Might warm you up."

She has that cold, early-morning feeling when you haven't slept; shaking both inside and out, everything moving too slow. "Sure."

He gives her a surprisingly generous dose, then screws the cap back on; she takes a sip, letting the sour liquid burn its way down her throat, and feels older than she ever has in her life. "That's a pretty bracelet," he says, his gaze zeroing in on her wrist. "Looks expensive. Where'd you steal it from?"

"I didn't—"

He laughs, showing all of his teeth. "I'm just messing with you, shit. You're too easy. But who _did_ steal it?"

"My brother," she admits, the alcohol making her let out a nervous giggle. "For my birthday. It's real pretty, yeah."

"Claudia _Winston_ ," he says, drawing her surname out like it's a question. "Your brother's Dallas, right?"

"You've met him?"

"Seen him around. He's got quite the reputation on him, that's for damn sure. I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to rob a fucking Tiffany's." Then he smiles disarmingly. "Shit, you know what I got Sally for her birthday? A Patsy Cline record— that's a secret, by the way. Your dad must've stolen you a car."

She couldn't have helped herself from cringing sober and awake, much less like this. "Oh. Sorry. Old man's kind of a shitbag?" He gives her an understanding look, and she finds herself nodding as though she's in a trance. "Hey, I get it, trust me. At least yours ain't in Sing Sing."

"Not in Sing Sing, yeah," she says, though Norm's spent more than a night or two in prison. She can't stop the words from flowing out of her mouth once they enter her brain. "That's a really bad pen. What'd he do?"

"Killed people," he says. "Mostly." He takes a big gulp from his cup, draining it of the orange juice, and then refills it with more vodka and downs that too. "Gives me nightmares to think about it, so I'll spare you the details."

Just then Sarah pads in, her flannel nightgown crumpled from sleep and her hair sticking out. "What's goin' on?"

"Hey, Sally," Jack says. "Lookit what the cat dragged in."

Sarah rubs the sleep out of her eyes. "Claud, what're you doing here? It's _early_."

"Heat went out at her place, so she showed up here." He raises his arms above his head and stretches. "Is Di home?"

"Nah. Not yet."

"Then let Claudia sleep in her bed," he orders with an air of easy command. "She's had a shit night."

Sarah's room is as much a mess as the rest of the house; clothes strewn all over the floor, a bottle of nail polish lazily dripping red onto the carpet. She sweeps a pile of brassieres and sweater sets off of Diane's bed and pulls aside the blankets. Claudia climbs in, her limbs sinking into the mattress. "What happened?" Sarah whispers, sliding back into her own bed.

"We were just talking—"

"Not with _Jack_ — I know you weren't swapping spit," she scoffs. "God, you ain't been at school for two days. Where you been, huh?"

"Didn't feel like going." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "My dad's split. Dally too, 'cause they had a fight. So I guess I don't have to anymore."

It'd been a little nervewracking, the first day, but mostly dull; she'd paced around, read three library books, attempted to fix herself meals with the remaining food, and waited for the truant officer to come knocking. The second day, she'd tried to think of where either of them might be. Dallas at Cass's place, but she doesn't know the address, and she'd stick out like a sore thumb anywhere Norm might be. The principal called. She let the phone ring and sat on the icy, sun-drenched fire escape until it stopped.

"Well, you're going today," Sarah declares. "You've missed _everything_. I got a new boyfriend, and you weren't even there to see. And Judy's being a first-class bitch to me 'cause she thought she and Dan were steadies, so it's not like I can sit with her at lunch, and you know, I don't think she should come to my sleepover either—"

Claudia closes her eyes and lets the wave of chatter wash over her, comforting in its familiarity. "Okay, I'll come," she says. "Not that it's awful special to see you get a new boyfriend."

Sarah lobs a blouse in her direction, then rolls over and falls asleep. Claudia can't. She counts a few hundred sheep, her mouth still bitter and cottony, and wonders if Jack's seen her brother anywhere lately.


	6. glass

*whistles nervously* ... hi guys! Sorry it took so long for me to update— between getting ready for college and writing literally anything but this, it dragged on for a while. Definitely going to try to make it a shorter wait than a month and a half next time.

* * *

The first thing Claudia notices as she kicks her boots off is the sweet, sweet heat, and she breathes a deep sigh of relief. Means someone finally came home and paid the—

Oh Jesus Christ why on the _couch_ —

"Knock much?" Dallas pulls his shirt back on over his head and covers Cass's bare chest with his arm, their bodies entangled, and a sharp stab of... something goes through her. Jealousy and fear and anger all mixed up. "Before you just barge in here?"

"I _live_ here," Claudia snaps. "So that's what you've been doing? You've been with— shit! Shit shit shit!"

One careless step forward, and a shard of broken beer bottle sinks into her foot; she shrieks as a dark stream of blood flows out and the pain shoots up her leg. "Why the hell didn't you sweep it up?" Dallas shouts above the din, rushing over to her. "How long's it been there?"

"Quit yelling at her— she's hurt, for fuck's sake," Cass says, replacing her dress, and to her immense shock, Dallas's mouth falls shut. "Especially when it was you and your dad throwing around those bottles in the first place."

"Sit still." He leads Claudia over to the couch, his face white; she screws her eyes tightly shut, fighting tears. "Shit, Cass, maybe you should go. There's—"

"Girls see a lot more blood than boys," she says coolly. "Even with the amount you all get your heads split open. I think I'll be fine. Honey, let me at it."

Reluctantly, Claudia extends her foot; Cass removes her crimson sock and prods it with careful fingers. "Where do you keep the tweezers?" she asks Dallas.

"The what?"

"Never mind," she sighs. "Give me your switch, then. There's a big shard still stuck in there."

"We don't got the money for a doctor," Dallas says, his brow furrowed. "I mean. I don't got the money. Maybe Norm might."

"You'd think all of you could pawn that second TV, then," Cass mutters under her breath, then snatches the switchblade from Dallas's hand and flips it open. "You really need not fidget, okay? I ain't any kind of nurse. I don't want to slice this thing open even worse."

She grits her teeth so hard she can practically hear the enamel crack, as Cass digs out the shard and presses a tissue up against the wound. "You'll be okay," she says, her voice a touch too maternal for Claudia's liking. "I don't think you'll need stitches or anything, but stay off the foot for a while. And next time your dad and your brother start havin' tantrums, stay outta the wreck."

"I'mma go find a bandage," Dallas announces, 'tantrum' obviously cutting his pride deep.

"Are you pregnant?" Claudia blurts out once he leaves the room, a question she definitely shouldn't ask but has to.

"No," Cass says, letting out a short laugh. "What makes you ask _that_? Can't be the size of my stomach— I got nothing to eat lately."

"I ain't a little kid, so you and Dally can quit treating me like one," Claudia says. "Dally's been over at your place a lot. Having sex with you. He says you're in trouble, and I know what 'getting into trouble' means."

"You know a lot about making babies, for a girl your age."

Claudia shrugs— it's funny, she tells herself, for a prostitute to judge her knowledge of sex, but she feels deflated and vulgar all the same. "I did too, when I was eleven," Cass continues. "Be careful, honey. I got my first pimp when I was thirteen."

Just then Dallas comes back in. "Goddammit, we ain't got no bandages, but I ripped up one of Norm's shirts— one he hasn't puked on yet." He brandishes the scraps and clumsily ties a knot around Claudia's foot. "Hope this thing is clean— shit, it's Norm's. 'Course it ain't clean."

"I should probably go," Cass says, nervously glancing at the door. "When's he getting back?"

"When he runs out of cash for booze, I guess— ain't like he ever leaves a note." Dallas shrugs. "You don't have to leave, shit. He's still got a whole afternoon to get drunk."

"Pay attention to your sister," she chides, then leans in for a long, wet kiss— Claudia grimaces and turns her head away. "I think she misses you."

"Dad's gonna kill you, if he sees you brought her back here," Claudia says once Cass is gone, leaving the smell of cheap perfume in her wake. She burrows deeper into the couch cushions. "Good thing it was me and not him."

"I don't give a fuck if he does." Dallas balls his fists up and smirks. "Let 'im at me. Wouldn't have minded a real fight before he ran outta here like a little bitch."

"Liar," she insists, his bravado grating on her nerves even more than usual. "You're scared of him, too."

"Shut up," he says, a perennial refrain when he's run out of arguments, but he can't meet her eyes when he says it. "Where the hell have you been, anyway?"

"School." She punches him in the arm, solidly hard, though she doubts he felt more than a tickle. "Like you're one to talk. Shacking up with your girlfriend for a week."

"None of your business where I go, kid. Beats living with Norm."

"It's my business when I had to go camp at my friend Sarah's house after the heat went out," she says, unable to keep the whine from her voice. Her foot feels like it's pulsing with its own painful heartbeat. "You can't just leave me here."

"Man, you know where I got left when I was your age? In a prison cell. But I guess you're right— I ain't a little girl." He gives her a look that's an equal cross between condescension and pity.

"I hate you."

"Don't be a shithead," he says, ruffling her hair to soften the words. "I thought Norm would be back by now, okay? I mean, not that he's a great babysitter either. How 'bout next time I take you to Cass's and give you some earplugs?"

"I _really_ hate you."

"Hey, I lifted you something." He bounds over to the fridge and pulls out a plastic container and a reasonably clean spoon. "Look. Pudding. You like pudding, right?"

"I'm not five years old," she says, determined not to let her resolve crack, even if it's chocolate. Apart from that pudding, all they have in the house is a can of beans and a half-eaten sandwich. She's hungry, goddammit.

"Shut up an' eat it," he says, plopping the container down on the coffee table. "Don't say I never do anything to look out for my poor injured sister." He flicks on the TV, showing some staticky news about the new government in Cuba. "Listen, Claud, we're gonna have it good once I work my way up in this new outfit— I promise. So quit giving me static."

He's been making that promise since she was nine and he shoplifted Barbies for her, but he's her brother, and if she can't trust him, she can't trust anyone. So she doesn't ask about Cass, or how Jack knows him, or where their dad is, because she doesn't want to risk him walking out again. She shuts up and eats her pudding.


End file.
